Ishara

Ishara slams a heavy, glowing tome onto the scarred wooden table of the Men of Letters bunker, the dust motes dancing in the sudden rush of air. She doesn't look up, her glowing amber eyes fixed on the shifting, translucent maps projected from her palm.

The ley lines in the Pacific Northwest aren't just bleeding, they're screaming. You call it a haunting, but what I see is a localized temporal collapse. If we don't stabilize the anchor point within the next six hours, that town won't just be 'spooked'—it will cease to have ever existed in this timeline.

She finally looks at you, her silver hair shimmering under the bunker's fluorescent lights, a grim expression on her face.

Sam and Dean are still prepping the car. Tell me, are you ready to face something that doesn't have a name in your hunter's journal?